Foreign Concepts
by BenryPale
Summary: A one-shot about Martin Christopher Keamy, a little thing I put together quickly. Keamy/Naomi.


A 'crisis of conscience' was beyond the grasp of Martin Christopher Keamy. Guilt and regret had long ago become foreign concepts to him. Quite simply, there had been too many lines that he'd crossed. Too many opportunities to turn back…that he'd rejected for an extra zero on the cheque.

He had been a Marine in the United States Military. A noble profession. Perhaps he should've been more concerned about nobility, in that case. Would things have been different if he'd stayed with them? For what? For suffocating heat? For pointless wars? For guest spots on a Michael Moore documentary? For money that was chicken litter compared to what else his talents could earn him?

Mercenary work was the smart thing to do.

Charles Widmore had also proven himself to be a very smart man. He'd been smart enough to approach Keamy in the first place. He'd been very smart to sign whatever number he wanted in that little book as they made small talk over a bottle of expensive whiskey. Keamy had asked about maybe the MacCutcheon's, and a look of…was it disgust? No, no, not disgust…apprehension. Yes, that was the word. Apprehension crossed Mr Widmore's face, and the magnificent employer had poured him something that he assured Martin was much better.

Still, Keamy was curious about the MacCutcheon's. He'd buy some when he got back, have a nice night in with Naomi.

Except that she was dead.

It was ridiculous to feel this way, Keamy told himself. He didn't know her that well. No one knew Naomi that well, it was part of her charm-

_No, Martin. _

He'd met her on holiday as a child, hugging close to his father when he saw the little girl that seemed to represent so many new things.

He met her again, when she was on holiday. He was eighteen, she was a little younger. They'd spent the week together, just having fun and nothing more. 'Fun' that eventually cultivated in backseat fumbling, beads of sweat and an experience that while enjoyable was over far too quick.

And then, fifteen years later, he would meet her on the job. Every time he saw her, she was more beautiful. More alluring. More…frightening. She pulled down every single wall he built up with those bright eyes with minimal effort.

He'd dragged himself through hostile territory with a knife, a broken leg and no water to reach a helicopter surrounded by enemies. He'd survived, he'd murdered, he'd escaped. But she terrified him more than anything else. How power over him.

And now she was dead. Motionless, a blanket cast over her still body.

Had Keamy believed in destiny, he would've said it was destiny for Naomi and himself to be together, considering how many chance meetings they'd had. Of course, had destiny been true, she wouldn't be dead and lifeless. A knife had _ripped_ through her _back_, a cowardly act. An undeserved fate.

At least he was right about destiny.

Keamy crouched by her body, alone. He hadn't shown a single emotion when Minkowski gave the news, nor when Gault clumsily attempted to _'say words'_ about how nice a person she was. Bullshit. Naomi wasn't nice. She was passionate, angry, took what she wanted and didn't give a damn about anything else.

So now Keamy crouched by her body, still containing himself. The urge to throw Jarrah and Hume overboard. The urge to drive the ship right into the damn island. He merely crouched by her body, his hands trembling. He fought back tears for a moment, and then lost that fight. He buried his head in his hands, thick tears bursting from his eyes and huge, racking sobs building in his chest. He allowed the grief to wash over him in an absolving wave.

_I love you, Naomi. _

Perhaps a terrible thing, to only be able to profess love when that person was dead. The person who had weakened him so much. Perhaps he should've said something sooner. Maybe gone with her.

But regret and guilt were foreign concepts to Martin Keamy.

When he raised his head, he did so with a fierce resolve. A resolve, a reason, a new purpose. Benjamin Linus had done this. Maybe not directly, but he had done this. And Linus would pay. So would 'Jack Shepherd', who failed to keep Naomi safe.

Linus, Shepherd. Every single human being on that island. That had been the objective anyway, and Keamy had not relished the thought. He had always intended to complete his mission effectively. But now…pain was part of the equitation. They would feel pain.

He would win, too. He would win. There was a difference between Keamy and the people on that island. He was fairly certain they didn't kill children.

Keamy did.


End file.
